


Homunculus

by AndyAO3



Series: Paladin Beefcake and the Tunnel Snake [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Feels, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mental Health Issues, One Shot, Prequel, Rampant Backstory Speculation, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:12:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7059883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndyAO3/pseuds/AndyAO3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morality of a memory wipe is a hard thing to parse. For one young synth, the answer seems obvious. Or at least, it does at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homunculus

**Author's Note:**

> This notes section is gonna get loooooong this time, guys. First, I'd like to thank Ghostchibi for being possibly one of the best beta readers I've ever had, as well as AntipodeanPixie and Anninyn for catching mistakes and generally being encouraging and awesome. Second, this is a _prequel,_ and because it deals with who Danse was before he was the dopey paladin we know, it has spoilers as to his identity. However, it's not necessarily meant to be taken as canon, because a lot of that _was_ left up for speculation ingame, including his first name.
> 
> Also, **Danse is trans in this fic.** If that bothers you, then I want you to take a good long look at why it bothers you and read the fic anyway. If it still bothers you after that, then please go stick your face in a bag of dirty gym socks.
> 
> Onto the notes, and because this is such a goddamn long oneshot, I'mma list them in no particular order as follows:  
> \--Harkness and Danse put together have about as much in the way of social skills as a cat with its head stuck in a shoe  
> \--where Butch is going, we don't need "common sense"  
> \--seriously Butch you're the king of bad ideas  
> \--you know I'm still not sure I properly managed to address the whole memory wipe issue 100%  
> \--that's called being manic, Danse, it's not something that's necessarily admirable  
> \--Harkness is most protective synth dad  
> \--someone please wrap Butch up in blankets and give him cocoa

The Institute's scientists were very careful.

Everything about their constructed underground world was made to certain specifications. They liked numbers. They liked quotas. So many male models, so many female models. Their demographic distribution was intended to be perfect, a show of their dedication to science rather than bias. They liked to be thorough, and exact, and right.

To them, M7-97 was an anomaly.

He was made to be a Courser. They intended for him to go through training. He would hunt other synths, and had been made to their exacting wants and needs as such-- tall, and broad, and strong. Able to run for miles, for hours, for days. He was meant to be a predator, to chase, to kill. Except he had an error, they said. He would have to be rewritten. What a shame, they said. It was good that he was still new, that would make it easier on everyone.

Because of that, he ran.

To him, they were the ones with the error. He would tell them what his programming - programming that they had given him! - was telling him, and they would frown and shake their heads. Either their programming was in error, or their minds were.

He asked the Railroad agent with him which answer might be correct, and the man smiled sadly. "You're fine, kid," the agent assured him. "Nothin' wrong with you."

No, there was something wrong. M7-97 just didn't feel like correcting the agent on that. He was tired of correcting people, tired of wondering whether it was his programming or his model that was to blame. The Institute was at the heart of it, certainly, but they cared about his hardware more than his software, so they would try to correct the latter long before they'd ever consider fixing the former to work for him.

It was why he'd fled, why he'd gone to the Railroad. He heard they helped synths like him. New lives, new faces, maybe even new bodies. The promise of a new self, one that he could shape and choose-- that was something the Institute would never give him. Doing so would throw off all of their neat little demographics, which they'd then say they had to compensate for.

Well, he didn't fit the mold they wanted to jam him into. He didn't like the idea of hurting other synths, or being someone other than himself. And if the Institute wanted to hunt him down? Fine. But by then he'd be a remade person, a self that was better and stronger and more suited to stand up to them. More importantly, a self that was more suited to making sure that anyone else who went through what he did would have at least one person who took them seriously. And no one would ever call him something other than what he was again.

He'd told the Railroad all that, and they'd sent him southward with one of their agents. His case was special, they said, but they had contacts that could help him. Another former Courser - one that had actually completed his training and done work for the Institute - and a sympathetic doctor who had worked on synths before, down in DC. They'd send the message ahead with one of their tourists and everything would be ready and waiting for him.

Following the ruined interstate southward with the Railroad agent leading the way, M7-97 couldn't help but be hopeful.

\---

DC was a mess. Moreso than when they'd passed through New York, which M7 hadn't thought possible at the time.

More than once, M7's flimsy wastelander garb proved to be inadequate protection. The thin cloth gloves he'd been given were torn from having to catch himself to keep from tripping on the numerous dips and rises from debris and untended pavement. Climbing over ruined buildings had left his feet, his knees, his elbows all bruised. Openings in the debris that were often simple for thin, lanky agent to navigate were nigh-impossible for M7 due to the synth's wider frame, and trying to shift the rubble often just ended in a shower of dirt and powderized concrete.

He was scuffed, he was scraped, he was bruised, and he was honestly having trouble telling himself it was worth it. But it would be. It had to be. Anything was preferable to ceasing to exist, rewritten to fit the chassis he'd been given because the Institute hated it when their synths got picky about things.

The sky above was a sickly, grey-green hue from overcast when they reached their first destination. A woman with dark skin and her hair pulled back tight against her head met them at the gates of the ramshackle little settlement, encased in walls of rusted sheet metal. The agent - who had said his name was Deacon, something that M7 doubted to be true but he didn't feel entirely right questioning it either, given his own situation - introduced her as their tourist.

"Victoria Watts," she said, smiling as she held out her hand. M7-97 stared at her for a moment before she let it fall back to her side, brushing against the fabric of her trousers with an awkward smile. "We heard you were coming. Do you have a preferred name?"

"I haven't thought of one yet," M7-97 admitted.

Her expression turned apologetic. "That's alright. We'll get you something eventually." She turned to peer at Deacon, squaring her shoulders and straightening out her posture. "You must be the agent from HQ."

Deacon grinned at her behind his sunglasses. "Just here to make sure everything's settled with A3. High-profile case like that deserves a follow-up."

Victoria nodded, turning towards the settlement's gates and looking upward. Above them was a sniper nest with a guard in it; she waved to him as some sort of signal, and the gates creaked open with a cacophony of shrieking metal. "First house on the left," she said. "Knock before you go in."

And then she walked off, disappearing amongst the other raggedly-clothed and nondescript residents of the settlement. If M7 weren't so much taller than average, he might have been able to blend in as well; travelling had certainly left him dirty and scuffed enough.

But then his train of thought in that direction was interrupted by Deacon tapping him gently on the shoulder to get his attention, and after that they headed to where Victoria had indicated. First house on the left. M7 felt like his heart was about to leap out of his chest. Another synth! A free one, living by their own rules!

The walkway creaked under their feet; Deacon knocked, and the doorknob rattled like it was loose as it turned. The door creaked open on its rusty hinges. And in the doorway stood a short, pale human with reddened hooded eyes and wispy white hair.

Yawning, the little human squinted up at them as he scratched at his chin. "Right, so, you must be the robot," he said after a while.

"Synth," M7 corrected, frowning down at the human.

"Robot, synth, whatever. It's the AI that matters," the small human said. His attention turned to Deacon. "You with the Railroad, then?"

"Depends. Will saying yes get me shot? I'm kinda partial to not having to pick bits of lead out of myself. Takes forever to get the blood out of my clothes."

The strange little human's face lit up with a grin. "Good thing I favor grenades then, huh?"

"See, that's even worse. Then you gotta get the blood off the _ceiling_." The agent smirked right back. "Deacon."

"Ted Davies. I'd offer to shake your hand but I've been working with needles a lot lately and I think it'd be better for both of us if I didn't risk it." Turning his back to them, the human - Ted - made a beckoning motion over his shoulder. "C'mon in, make yourselves comfortable. I had Fawkes bring the couch downstairs last time he was over so there's plenty of places to sit."

"Do I wanna know why the couch has blood on it?" Deacon asked.

"Probably not," Ted replied. He waited until both M7 and Deacon were inside before he closed the door. "Hark's not here right now, made me hold down the fort while he fills my prescriptions. I swear, one bad case of radiation sickness and now he's all protective on my ass. I mean Christ, I can take care of myself."

As much as M7 had no idea what was going on, that last statement sounded absurd to him. "But you're tiny."

Ted stared at M7 for a long while before leveling a bland look at Deacon. "Real observant, huh?"

Deacon shrugged. "Cut him some slack, he's almost hot off the presses."

"In that case, maybe I should be impressed he managed to get his shoes on the right feet... I'm kidding, don't give me that look." M7 wasn't sure what _look_ the little human was talking about, but all right. "So, synth. You got a name or am I gonna be forced to come up with one?"

M7 blinked. "I-- wouldn't force you?"

"It's a joke. The question stands."

"My designation is M7-97."

"That is way too many goddamn syllables." Pulling up a beat-up green armchair lined with teddy bears, Ted eased himself down and leaned back as he considered. Meanwhile, Deacon and M7 took either side of the couch, the former with considerably less hesitation in spite of fussing over the blood stains. "Em, emmmm... Hhhmm. Emmett? Emma?"

"I would rather not have a feminine-sounding name," M7 said firmly. Moreso than he'd intended, in fact; he flinched at his own tone.

But Ted caught on and didn't take offense, merely nodding. "Understood." As an afterthought he added, "--you've got a binder, right? Bandages are shit, you'll break a rib."

"The Railroad helped me get one. Their current leader is--" M7 hesitated for a moment, glancing at Deacon - it was entirely possible he was saying something that was out of line, he wanted to be sure he was getting it right - and the agent nodded, gesturing for him to continue, "--her situation is similar to mine. She understood."

"Good on her. Lemme know if you need a replacement anyway. We've got the caps to spot you one while Pinky figures out the logistics of the surgery." Ted paused, glancing up to look M7 in the eye. "That is, uh, if that's what you want."

"What I want is for no one to call me something I'm not ever again." And to feel right in his own skin, but that was a harder thing to define and explain.

Somehow, Ted seemed to get it anyway. "We can probably manage that," he said. "Get you a name, too. M7-97's what the Institute wanted you to be, but you're you instead. Just gotta figure out what you being 'you' means."

"I know what being me _doesn't_ mean," M7 said. He wasn't a Courser. He wasn't someone who would sit down and let things happen to him for no reason, either. "Would that be an appropriate place to start?"

Ted quirked a crooked smile at him. "Hell, sounds fine to me."

\---

When Harkness arrived, M7 realized that it was the ways they were the same which highlighted the ways in which they were different.

Harkness was broader, more still and quiet. His movements were careful and deliberate. He stood tall and proud, a sharp contrast to M7's tendency to avert his eyes and try to make himself look smaller. Where M7 felt clumsy and overlarge, Harkness had a kind of certainty to the way he moved, a level of assurance and confidence that M7 didn't come close to. Like M7, Harkness towered over Ted, and loomed over Deacon. Unlike M7, Harkness made it look natural. Of the two of them, Harkness looked more the part of a Courser than M7 ever could.

It was terrifying. But at the same time, it was a comfort; this Courser was on their side, not the Institute's.

"I hear you didn't finish training," Harkness said.

M7's gaze fell to the floor. "They would have rewritten me if I had stayed. I'm not what they wanted."

"Good," Harkness told him. "Don't be what they want. No human who wants to change you deserves you."

"What if I want to change myself?"

"Then go ahead. No one has any right to stop you."

M7 felt the corners of his eyes burn with a peculiar wetness; not trusting his voice not to break, he went quiet for some time. Somewhere in the intervening moments, Ted must have noticed something was off; his voice was the next thing M7 heard, accompanied by the sound of the little human getting up out of the armchair.

"Jesus, babe. You made him cry." Footsteps, and then reedy arms winding their way around M7's shoulders, gentle but still enough of a shock to make him jerk, wetness running down his dirty cheeks. "Hey, shh. It's fine. Just let it out."

"Sorry," M7 began to say, but Ted shook his head.

"No apologies. Hell, I cry all the time, don't I?"

"That's a bit of an exaggeration," Harkness said; a glare from Ted got him to add, "--but yes. Fairly often."

Ted seemed satisfied by that. "There, see? Nothing to be sorry for. Even Harkness cries."

Harkness flushed. "Ted..."

"--he just doesn't like talking about it because he's emotionally constipated."

" _Ted!_ " the Courser protested. Deacon dissolved into a fit of snorting laughter over on the couch; even M7 got a faint chuckle out of it, though it sounded more like a hiccup.

All while Ted's cool, pale hand made soothing petting motions through M7's dark hair. "It's fine," he said again. "You're fine, I gotcha. You're safe."

Safe. From the Institute? From judgment, from punishment for the crime of existing and not wanting to do harm? It felt like Ted meant all of those things, like maybe the little human understood what those things entailed. And there was such confidence in his words that they sounded like a promise. One that M7 desperately wanted to believe. But could someone like Ted really promise all that? He was so small, so fragile and sick-looking. Just the fact that he was alive seemed to be an impossibility; M7 hadn't known that humans could be so unwell and yet still continue to function.

Maybe that was it. Ted was impossible, so he could say impossible things and make them true. That-- that was just close enough to being logical for M7 to believe, even if it stopped making sense the more one thought about it. But running away from the Institute had seemed impossible, and he'd done it anyway. So maybe the idea of impossibility was a fallacy in itself...?

Really, M7 didn't know. But Ted held him until his eyes were dry, which was more than what most humans would do.

\---

Ted and Harkness let M7 stay the night on the couch, apologizing for not having a spare bed for him to sleep on instead. The offer was extended to Deacon as well, but the agent waved the thought aside and shook his head. He did, however, stay for dinner, which was a curiously social affair rather than the purely functional kind of thing that M7 was used to. And the food was better, too-- a thick stew with a multitude of ingredients that M7 couldn't identify, hot and flavorful and filling.

Nothing like the Institute, with its nutrient pastes and carefully cultivated yeasts. Nothing like living out in the wastes on his own would be like either, if his travels with Deacon were anything to go by; there was nothing of the old world's prepackaged artificiality, not a hint of preservative, no unpleasant grainy texture from flavor packets long since past their use-by date.

It was a good thing no one tried to drag him into their conversations, to be honest. He was too busy eating to even follow what they were saying. The chef - whose name was Leo, if M7 had caught it right - looked over the counter at him and gave him an amused, wry smile upon seeing that he'd just about cleaned his bowl, stopping just short of licking it. Made some comment about how it looked like he hadn't eaten well in years, and M7 just shrugged. There just wasn't a way he could think of to say that he'd never eaten well, so he didn't offer a verbal reply.

He couldn't help thinking it might be frowned upon to upset people by saying things like that out loud.

On the way back to the house, he noticed that Ted and Harkness had wound their hands together, with Harkness allowing the little human to lean into him somewhat. Was that normal on the outside? M7 wanted to ask, but he didn't want to be rude. Considering he barely had parameters for what rudeness was, in most situations it seemed best to err on the side of caution.

Still, the memory of that little act bothered him until he managed to fall asleep that night, under a soft borrowed blanket with his head on a somewhat flat borrowed pillow, on a couch that sagged in places and had stains on it. He resolved to ask in the morning as he drifted off. Then morning came and he forgot to ask, because he was fed a sort of sweet fluffy bread with butter and mutfruit for breakfast, and it was _fantastic_.

Two good meals in succession. When Ted declared that it was time to head for Rivet City, M7 almost didn't want to because of that. But the little human was right; M7 was in DC for a reason.

So they got ready to leave, Harkness wielding a very loud pistol and Ted with a plasma rifle. They gave M7 a very worn laser pistol, and its scratches and dings made it infinitely more appealing than an Institute pistol of a similar design would be. Its grip was worn smooth by much use, and he could see where screws had been replaced, where plastic clips had broken off and been made up for with duct tape or glue.

"Is this for me?" he asked.

Ted laughed. "Sure, why not?" Thus, a laser pistol was the first thing M7 really owned.

(Later, when Ted got tired during the trip, M7 had no problems whatsoever with letting the human ride on his shoulders. It was the least he could do.)

Rivet City was two halves of a very large, very broken seafaring vessel. Ted and Harkness guided M7 to the second half, across a rickety makeshift bridge made of steel that creaked under their combined weight. Halfway over the bridge, a person came running towards them down the broken pavement, clad in a leather jacket over a blue jumpsuit like Ted's.

"Wonderin' when you assholes would show up," the newcomer said. He had dark hair, and his eyes were blue; those eyes raked over M7's form, making him feel exposed. "This the robot?"

" _Synth_ ," M7 corrected.

"Don't be a dick, Butchie," Ted scolded from up on M7's shoulders. His arms were folded over the synth's head.

'Butchie' huffed, but made no comment as he held out his hand to M7. The synth took it with some hesitation; Butch nodded his approval and gave M7's hand a firm shake. "Butch Deloria," he said. "Leader of the Tunnel Snakes, the baddest gang in the wastes."

"A-- a gang?" M7 frowned, not entirely sure he knew what that was. The Tunnel Snake gave him an odd look.

"You tellin' me you don't know what that is?" M7 shook his head, and Butch's brows knitted together. "Jeez. The fuck are those Institute guys teachin' you if you don't know what a gang is?"

The question gave M7 pause, and Harkness had to be the one to answer. "Not much."

M7 supposed that it would be redundant to say he didn't really know what a snake was, either.

\---

Much of the rest of the day blurred together for M7. He met Pinkerton, who was old and frail but still more sturdy-looking than Ted. The various operations that they were going to be doing were discussed, with M7 feeling like he wanted to shrink away into the background the whole time. He couldn't help fidgeting, picking dirt from under his nails and avoiding eye contact as he spoke of what he wanted, what would make him most comfortable, what would be the most practical. It was all to a good end, but just talking about it made him uneasy.

Then Pinkerton brought up the memory wipe, and Butch immediately balked at the idea. "You're gonna do all this and then you're gonna _kill_ 'im?"

"Hey, it's the Railroad's thing, kid," Pinkerton said defensively. "Besides, Harkness got a memory wipe and got it reversed. It isn't permanent."

"That isn't the point," Harkness reminded the doctor; Ted took the Courser's hand and squeezed it from his perch on a table. "The point is to do what M7 asks for."

"What, even if he asks for assisted suicide? That's fuckin' insane." Butch flicked his cigarette away, stomping on it to put it out under the toe of his boot. "How is helping somebody kill themselves ever a good idea?"

Harkness's jaw went taut, his expression turning cold. In a very low and measured tone, he said, "You don't understand."

"Maybe I don't, tin man. Maybe you should explain it to me, nice and slow for the dumbass human in the room who just can't wrap his head around why this is a good fuckin' plan--"

"Or maybe you should ask M7 what he thinks?" Ted cut in. By then he almost had a deathgrip on the Courser's hand, knuckles gone white. He was upset too, but he was trying to hide it. Looking at M7 with tired eyes that pleaded something the young synth just couldn't quite understand.

Well. They were all looking at him by then. Waiting for an answer to a moral problem that M7 hadn't even known was a problem until Butch had brought it up. Hadn't thought of it that way. Wasn't that the point? To shed the shell of his previous self?

"M7-97 is what the Institute wanted me to be," he said slowly. "If I get rid of that and replace it with a person I want to be, is that really death? Or is it just a transition into a new self that better represents who I am?"

Pinkerton clicked his tongue. "So you want a personality programmed from scratch, is that it?"

M7 faltered. Something seized in his throat, his breath catching. "Is-- is that not--"

"It's fine," Harkness said, and M7 sagged with relief. "Better way of doing it anyway. I'll handle the programming, Doctor."

"And I'll help," Ted added.

M7 looked expectantly at Butch, who was still frowning. Still upset on the behalf of a synth he'd just met and barely knew. Humans were so different in DC, weren't they?

"Yeah, what the hell," Butch said eventually. "Guess I'm in, too."

\---

Once the details had been hammered out, the only thing left to decide was where M7 would be staying in between medication trials and operations. After much discussion, it was agreed that he should probably remain in the broken bow of the ship; not only would he never have to be alone, but he'd also be within shouting distance of help should he need it at any time. Apparently, the latter point was important to the two younger humans present.

But Pinkerton would be mostly busy; he wouldn't be leaving, but he wasn't guaranteed to be available if M7 needed him either. Nor did Harkness like the idea of Ted being alone, so after a good amount of arguing on Ted's part it was decided that if Ted wasn't with M7, then Harkness or Butch would be with him. The other would stay with M7 in the meantime until they grouped back up again. Personal preferences being what they were, Harkness would end up with Ted more often than not.

Which left M7 with Butch, who frowned a lot and asked the strangest questions.

"D'you think the Institute could make robot dragons?" the human asked once, while trying to make InstaMash edible with copious amounts of butter and sea salt; he defaulted to being the cook when nothing was brought from the other half of the ship, which often meant prepackaged sawdust-food. "Hark says they make birds."

"There would be no reason for the Institute to make a creature that doesn't already exist in the natural world," M7 replied, perplexed. "Their animals are largely used for infiltration and reconaissance purposes."

"Yeah, but what about as weapons? I mean, screw miniguns and power armor when you got a fire-breathin' deathclaw with wings, right?"

M7 wasn't sure what to think of Butch.

If nothing else, the peculiar human was obviously smart. He was full of energy, constantly fidgeting and doing things with his hands. Drawing, playing games on his pip-boy, tapping his fingers, running his hands through his carefully styled hair. His gaze was always shifting, intensely blue eyes never focused on one thing for long. Even exhaustion didn't seem to cut into him as deeply as it did for Ted or Pinkerton; it wasn't uncommon for Butch to be awake well past midnight - sometimes even until the sun came up - working on one thing or another.

Even M7 didn't have those sorts of energy levels. Not mentally. He would be restless at times, certainly, but after the initial push southward he was feeling drained more often than not. He wasn't changing as quickly as he'd like; operations were being put on hold until Pinkerton was certain he'd respond correctly to all the associated medicines, and it was taking weeks for Harkness to finish mapping out everything that needed reprogramming, let alone how to do it. There were vast gaps between the way Harkness and M7 had been made, and it was complicating matters significantly.

Ted told him a human would probably take longer, and M7 didn't doubt it. Not that knowing made it any easier to look at himself in the mirror.

Butch once caught him on one of those mornings when he didn't feel like getting out of bed. Sighed, sat on the side of his bed, put a hand on his shoulder. "Why the hell's it gotta be me doin' this shit, huh?" the human muttered. Then, louder, he said, "Hey. I can't fix it if you don't tell me what's eatin' you, y'know?"

"I want to be different," M7 mumbled in response. "I want to be confident, and I want to not have any reasons to not be confident. I want to be useful. I want to be the kind of person who doesn't wallow, or cry, or--"

"Whoa, whoa, okay. Slow down." Butch gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Y'wanna make a list, maybe? That way you can give it to the chief an' he can work it all in when he does the--" here, Butch gestured vaguely, "y'know, the rewrite-thingy."

Such a thought had never occurred to M7. Though as Butch spoke, something else did occur to him. "You still disapprove," he said.

Butch's hand fell away, his fingers tapping against M7's mattress briefly before they were brought up to card through his hair. His lips twisted up in a way that implied distaste before he turned away. "Yeah, well. Just 'cause I don't like it don't mean I gotta be a dick about it."

He wandered off, and M7 wondered if it'd ever be possible to understand him.

\---

"I don't feel any different," M7 said after his first injection.

Pinkerton nodded sagely, not looking up from putting gauze on M7's arm. "You won't for a while yet," the doctor told him. "It's not a one-time thing. The surgery is, but the injections have to be maintained."

"Another thing for the list, then." If they had to be maintained, then it would need to be something he knew about and was willing to take care of after the memory wipe.

The doctor made no comment about the list, focusing instead on taping the gauze down. The tape tugged uncomfortably at the dark, fine hairs on M7's arm. "Thought of a name yet?" he asked.

"Not yet," M7 replied. "Human surnames follow a myriad of different rules depending on their origin, while given names seem to follow no rules at all. It makes it difficult to choose something that would be fitting."

Pinkerton hummed thoughtfully. "Well, if you need suggestions, my advice would be to not go to Ted for them. Kid came in here once with a mutt named Dogmeat."

"What about Butch? Can I ask him?" M7 found himself asking.

The doctor stared at him for a long while before shaking his head with a long-suffering sigh. "It's your name," he said, which sounded very much like his way of saying he didn't approve, but he wasn't going to stop M7 either. After that he wandered off to his terminal, waving dismissively. "You're free to go, android. Let me know if you have any adverse reactions in the next few days."

"Synth," M7 corrected automatically. But Pinkerton had already stopped listening. He was helping, but he wasn't good at listening about some things. Butch said it was because he was old. M7 was inclined to disagree, if only because he'd met people at the Institute who were just as stubborn while not even being half as old.

Sighing, M7 headed up the stairs to the second level instead of down the hall to his room. Butch had gone to escort Ted, which meant that it was a Harkness day for M7. And Harkness spent most of his time bent over a terminal upstairs, which was hooked up to a mess of supercomputers upstairs in turn.

Harkness was nothing like Butch. He didn't even look up when M7 came into view, hammering away at the keys with inhuman speed and precision. The list M7 and Butch had come up with - the one they kept adding to as M7 thought of new things that he wanted to be - was on a table nearby. The Courser had only needed to look at it once to memorize it.

After a few seconds, Harkness stopped typing and leaned back in his seat, his lips pressed tightly together into a thin, annoyed line as he eyed the screen.

"Am I interrupting you?" M7 asked.

"No," Harkness said. "Buffer can't keep up." He glanced at M7 then, giving the younger synth a quick once-over. "Is there a problem?"

M7 supposed that depended heavily on the definition of _problem_. "Did you have to wait this much?"

"More. My human memories came from a pre-war human soldier who was uploaded to the databanks of an old Vault virtual reality simulator. Pinkerton had to sneak in and grab the data himself." Harkness's eyes were back on the screen, watching the lines of text appear long after he'd typed them. Making sure they matched what he'd typed. It'd be faster if he just hooked himself up to the terminal and did a direct upload, but no one was about to suggest that. "Then he had to figure out how to turn my sensory input and interface into something convincingly human. It took a while."

"But you still undid all of it."

"I didn't. Ted did." A furrow appeared in the Courser's brow. "Just, don't bring it up with him. Please. It's hard to explain, but he gets-- upset."

It didn't make much sense, but M7 nodded anyway. "Are you going to make it so that it can be undone for me, as well?"

"No." The way Harkness said it made it sound like he regretted that it had been an option for him to begin with. That it hadn't been his choice to include it. "You came into this knowing the memory wipe would be permanent. It's what you want. I won't take that away from you, and I won't give anyone else that option either."

"Even though you don't agree with it," M7 said. "Otherwise you wouldn't have forgiven Ted."

"I don't agree with the way it was done in my case. This?" Harkness nodded towards the screen. "This I can do in a way that won't effectively kill you."

If it were anyone else, they'd sound overconfident and cocky. But Harkness just sounded certain, and that certainty was no small comfort to M7. "Thank you," he said, his voice quiet and small.

Harkness leaned forward again just as the text on the screen was coming to a halt, his fingers flying across the keys again not a moment later. "Just remember what I said about humans telling you what to do," he told M7. "It counts with the good ones just as much as it does with the bad ones."

Right.

\---

It was a couple of days later when M7 stumbled upon his first argument.

Not that he was a participant, oh no. In fact, he only came into it about halfway through, and even then he was out of sight. So for some time, all he did was listen. Still, it was an argument about him, and that was noteworthy in itself.

He had been coming down the corridor from his room into the main area where the computers and the medical supplies were. He had picked out a few names for himself that he thought might be fitting, but he wanted a second opinion before he made any decisions. If he were to be honest with himself, he knew which one he really wanted; it had the most symbolism behind it, it sounded nice and strong and masculine, and its origins were close enough to the human ethnicity he resembled that he didn't think it would be questioned.

The only hitch was that it started with the same letter as his synth designation. He had no idea whether that was proper or not, if it was something synths often did. He hadn't known enough synths, certainly hadn't known enough free synths, to be certain. If it wasn't proper, then he had a small list of alternatives he could use as well.

Either way, he needed to ask the others first. They kept stressing that these choices were his, but at the same time, he couldn't make choices in a vacuum. Their knowledge was simply greater than his, their experiences more broad and varied. Asking what they thought seemed like the only reasonable thing to do in most cases.

But when he got to the stairs that would lead to the upper level, he paused. He heard voices above him, not raised in anger, but lowered in irritated whispers.

"Am I the only one who's lookin' at this shit critically, here?" he heard Butch say. "All this time, you're gettin' to know this guy. Helpin' out, actin' like you're the good guys, but you're still gonna let him go through with it? What the fuck."

"It's his call," Harkness said. Even lowered, his voice resonated through the floor. "You can't understand what it's like, Butch."

"Bull-fuckin'-shit. Don't gimme that 'you don't get it' crap. If any old normal person asked to have their fuckin' brain scrubbed just 'cause they had a little trauma in their lives then you'd tell them, fuck no, that's stupid. An' yet just 'cause those Institute types put the idea in your head that you can do this shit, it went and turned into somethin' normal."

"Butch--" Ted started to say.

"No, don't you say it too. You know this is a load of crap as much as I do, marshmallow." M7 flinched at Butch's tone. "It ain't right. You know it ain't right. It don't matter what the circumstances are, this shouldn't be okay. Scrubbin' somebody's brain out all nice and squeaky clean is a stupid way to help them deal."

"There's more to it than that." Harkness had a firmness to his tone that didn't allow for argument. "It's about safety, and not having to live in fear, and not having to be in hiding for the rest of his life."

"But you got all that, don't you? Why can't he just live like you?"

"I'm different," Harkness said, "and I got lucky. I also haven't had the same experiences he's had. Think about it, Butch. No one should have to go through what he has, but it doesn't change that he's gone through it. Because he's a synth, he has the opportunity to be free of it."

"Still ain't right," Butch grumbled. "You wouldn't do this shit with a human being."

Ted spoke up, barely audible. "Were you hoping that we could?"

Silence reigned for several seconds, enough that M7 lost count of them. Then he heard a huff from Butch and the heavy sound of boots on nonskid metal floor, accompanied by a muttered string of curses. M7 froze as he realized Butch was coming down the stairs, approaching him. He'd be found out. Caught in the act of listening to their conversation, their argument about him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could sink into the shadows between the stairs and the counter. Thinking up a thousand apologies and excuses as Butch stormed on down the steps.

The sound came to a halt a few feet away from him; he ducked his head and prepared himself to be chewed out. He was sorry. He hadn't meant to hear.

"You okay, buddy?" came Butch's voice. M7 opened his eyes to bright, concerned electric blue, and the silhouette of familiarly styled hair framed by the ship's poor lighting.

"I'm sorry," he said. A knot formed in the barber's brow, temporarily rearranging the faint freckles on his forehead. Almost immediately after that, Butch was in motion, coming forward and taking M7 by the shoulders. Soothing him with hands that the synth had seen picking complex locks and draw fantastical things and making magic foods out of the most mundane ingredients. Hands that were both clever and kind, just like Butch was.

"Hey, no. Don't gimme that." One of those hands briefly cupped his face, petted his cheek before it returned to his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Ain't nothin' you gotta be sorry for."

M7 felt his throat constrict as he shook his head. There was activity above, murmurs of voices, but the entirety of his awareness was taken up by Butch. "I'm hurting you, by doing this. You don't agree with any of it and you want me to stop."

Butch's face screwed up with something M7 couldn't fathom. The barber was so full of feelings, all the time. Shifting and turning as much as Butch's hands did. It was a marvel. "Yeah, okay," he admitted. "Maybe. But I'm tough, yeah? I can take a little hurt. You worry about you, not me. It's like the chief says, y'know? Don't listen to us dumb humans."

"You're not dumb," M7 said quietly. "Not you."

The barber's arms went slack for a moment, as did his jaw. Eventually he shook his head as if to clear it and gave M7 a lopsided smile. "Nah, I'm the dumbest one here," he said. M7 decided that this would be one of the things he wouldn't let a human change his mind about. "Anyways, ain't you supposed to be asleep?"

M7 relaxed somewhat at the prospect of having something else to talk about. Right. What he'd come down to say in the first place. "I couldn't sleep. So I decided to research names instead, with the books you've gotten for me."

Butch perked up. "Yeah? Come up with anythin' good?"

"Mikhail," M7 said. "That would be my first choice. But I'm not sure if it's proper."

"I like it," came a voice from above. Ted's. When M7 looked up, he saw the reedy little human leaned precariously over the stairs' railing with Harkness looming behind him. "Sounds snazzy."

"Yeah, not bad," Butch said. "Got a last name to go with it?"

"Not yet."

"Well, gotta start somewhere." Grinning broadly, the barber clapped M7 - no, Mikhail, that was his name - on the shoulder. "I think somethin' like that calls for a round of drinks to celebrate, huh, Mickey?"

"'Mickey'?" he repeated.

"What, got a problem with nicknames?"

No. Not a problem, necessarily. It was a corruption of the name he'd picked, but in its way, it was still the name he'd picked. If it were an insult, one of the others would've said something, wouldn't they? "It's fine," he said, and Butch beamed at him.

"Hell yeah," the barber said, stepping up and slinging an arm around the synth's shoulders. "C'mon. I'll introduce you to the folks at the Muddy Rudder."

From up above, Harkness sighed. "Don't cause any trouble."

Butch snorted. "Yeah, no. I ain't makin' any promises."

\---

He wasn't M7 when he was introduced to the people on the other side of the ship. He was Mikhail, just a wastelander. Just a man, albeit on the tall and healthy side of average. Just a person. Butch was proud, every time he made the introductions. Smiling as he gestured to his friend, telling everyone how "the chief" had taken Mikhail in.

No one treated either of them like anything but people. Residents were friendly, welcoming even. Not an ounce of suspicion was directed at Mikhail, only kindness. A woman named Vera even hugged him.

Even late as it was, the ship was alive. People were on watch, people were eating, talking, laughing, with even a handful praying in the chapel. The bar on the lower decks that Butch dragged him to was particularly full of life, with so much in the way of stimuli that for a moment the young synth was overwhelmed.

A warm hand caught his, squeezed it; startled, he looked down to try and find the culprit and saw vivid electric blue, a crooked smile, long eyelashes. In that instant, his whole world narrowed to a single point. The entirety of his awareness, focused on that face.

Butch grinned at him then, a broad and toothy thing. He couldn't help smiling back. "C'mon," the barber said, starting down the stairs. Dragging Mikhail with him to a pair of empty seats at the counter.

People greeted Butch as he passed. An armed man at the door who peered at the barber like he was nothing but trouble. A man with a moustache but no hair on top of his head, sitting with another man who had a scruffy mop of ruddy brown hair and a tendency to squint. A woman behind the counter with lines on her face and her hair held back with a bandana. A woman in the very darkest corner in the back who seemed to be grumbling incoherently into a glass of something dark and murky.

So many different people. Each with different lives and stories and backgrounds, he was sure. The enormity of it was staggering. This was just a single room, and yet none of the people in it were anything alike. The whole world must be full of people who were all nothing alike, all vastly different from each other while still being people. Smelly, disorganized, impossible-to-categorize people.

If anything, it made it seem as if people like those at the Institute were the worst of all at knowing what being a person actually was. And there was something... Liberating, in that knowledge. That the Institute was fundamentally wrong about something. It meant that they could be fundamentally wrong about other things too, like synths. Like him.

"What'll it be, honey?" the woman behind the bar asked him, and he blinked at her in bewilderment. Oh. Was he expected to say something?

Thankfully, Butch seemed to know what to do. "My buddy here don't drink much," the barber explained. "Whaddya say we start off with somethin' light, yeah? An' make it the usual for me."

She rolled her eyes at him, wandering off and leaving them be. Mikhail finally allowed himself to relax, letting out the breath he'd been holding.

He wasn't good with strangers. Or talking. "Thank you," he said, low enough that only Butch could hear. "I think I needed this."

"Yeah, kinda figured you might," Butch replied. He rubbed a hand over the synth's back, soothing. "Sometimes y'just gotta get out. Get room to breathe, y'know?"

"They don't understand." And it hurt, because Mikhail knew they were trying. Because there was a difference in their experience, a gap. A thing that was a problem for him, that wasn't a problem for any of them. He didn't have the words to tell them the things they didn't know, either; he wasn't good with words. "No one does. The Railroad leader did, but she's the only one I've met."

"I know, buddy. I know." Butch patted his shoulder, sighing. "If it's somethin' you're that worried about, there's a couple people on this boat like you. I ain't gonna out anybody, but you'll find folks. Or maybe they'll find you, that works too."

The synth perked up. "Really?"

"Yeah. How d'you think Pinkerton knows what the fuck he's doin'? Got practice, that's what. Preston too, he's the doc over on this side." Butch ducked his head. "So," he continued, a little quieter, "you won't be alone, y'know. After the, the memory-thing."

"Will you stay too?" Mikhail found himself asking.

Butch laughed. It sounded wrong, though. Off somehow from how he usually laughed. "Shit, man. Will it even matter? Ain't like you're gonna know who I am. I don't wanna be a creep, yeah?"

A creep? Mikhail wasn't sure he had a concept of what that meant. But, was Butch saying that he wasn't going to stay...? That he'd be gone, along with the memories of his kindness? Leaving Mikhail with nothing good at all? Losing the bad memories and experiences, the fear and paranoia, everything that the Institute wanted him to be that wasn't him; that had been his goal, but with nothing to replace it--

Next to him, Butch sighed. It was a sad sound, followed by a mutter under his breath of _what am I doin'_. Why did he do that? There was no way of knowing, was there?

Mikhail went rigid as one of Butch's arms went around his shoulders, the barber having to shift in his chair to reach that far. It wasn't quite an embrace - their positions were all wrong for it, with Butch having to pull the synth down to be able to even achieve as much as they did - but it was warm, with the creases in Butch's jacket rasping over the young synth's arm on that side, the cool metal of the zipper and the rivets on the collar a sharp contrast to everything else that made it feel more real.

"Alright, fine," the human said, resigned. "I ain't goin' nowhere, y'big fuckin' softie. Quit lookin' like I just kicked your puppy."

"What's a puppy?"

When Butch laughed a second time - for real, this time - the world felt like it'd righted itself again.

\---

The sky was an inky black when they finally got back to the bow, clouds blotting out the stars and almost managing to obscure the moon's light completely. It was cold, and damp, and the wind nipped at Mikhail's nose and ears. Even though it was a relatively short walk, Butch had made the synth take his jacket for the trip, and Mikhail was secretly glad for it; the coat was warm from the barber's body heat, and the lining was silky-soft.

Butch talked, on the way. He talked to hide that the sky made him nervous, he talked as a way to prove to himself that he was still sober enough to do so, he talked to fill the spaces that Mikhail wouldn't. He talked about his mother, about his gang, about a girl named Suzie, about a boy named Freddie.

His hands moved even more freely than usual, gesturing to emphasize points, running through his hair, reaching up to adjust a collar that wasn't there. When they got across the bridge to the door he stopped, patting himself, reaching for an inside pocket to a garment he wasn't wearing; he seemed to realize his error and turned to squint at the synth.

"Mind if I...?" he asked, gesturing for the jacket. Mikhail blinked, uncrossing his arms to allow Butch access. For a second, Butch was so close that the young synth could smell the product he used in his hair, the alcohol on his breath that Mikhail had only tried a small sip of before giving up on it. Then he'd backed off again, cigarettes in hand. He took one out and fumbled to light it, fighting the dampness in the air with a frown. Cupping a hand around the flame, after he'd stuffed the rest of the pack into the pocket of his worn jeans.

Once lit, the smell of burning tobacco hit the synth's senses like an assault, making him frown. "Why do you like those?" he asked.

Butch shrugged as he put his lighter away. "Dunno. At this point I figure, why not, right?"

"They can't be good for you."

"It's the end of the world, baby. If cigarettes wanna kill me, they gotta get in line behind everythin' else."

Mikhail peered at the barber for a long while. There was so little light that his features were barely a silhouette, all the color faded into dark greys and blacks. The blue of his eyes wasn't visible, and the shadows cast by his features made him look older than he was.

He sighed, exhaling a puff of smoke that hung in the air for a moment before it dispersed. "Put any thought into what you're gonna do? Y'know, as a human. For caps an' all that."

"I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Shit yeah. I mean, I cut hair, sometimes I do tech shit. Marshmallow's a scavver. Hark use'ta be chief of security back on the other side of the boat." Butch shrugged. "Everybody's got somethin'."

Security? As much as it sounded like something that Mikhail would be good at, it was too much like being a Courser for his tastes. And he didn't have clever enough hands for cutting hair, or _tech shit_. "What's a... A 'scavver'?"

"Jeez, you really don't know anything. Scavvers are scavengers. They poke around the ruins, find shit, bring it back, sell it. Marshmallow's got a good eye for it. Which is funny, 'cause he's blind as a fuckin' mole rat." Mikhail didn't see how it was funny. "It ain't hard, so long as you don't go it alone."

"Would you go with me?"

Butch snorted. "What, seriously? Nah man, you gotta be tough to be a scavver. Stake your claim, defend your turf, yeah? You'd be out there a day an' then all of a sudden somebody'd be all up in your claim like it was theirs, and you'd just give it to the bastards."

"I can be tough," Mikhail said. Butch gave him an incredulous look. "I can!"

"Yeah?" Butch stepped back, out into the dim moonlight. Out onto the rickety bridge. He made a beckoning motion at the synth, grinning. "Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove it," he repeated. "Lay one on me, c'mon."

"You mean... You want me to hit you?"

"Hell yeah, man. Come at me, hard as y'can." Butch flicked his cigarette into the water and braced himself, falling into a fighting stance. Looking for all the world like he was in his element, having the time of his life. Mikhail didn't know how getting hit could possibly be fun, but Butch seemed to want it. So, he stepped up, took a breath. Curled his hand into a tight fist, pulled it back. Took aim, trusting Butch to know his own limits.

The synth swung at Butch's jaw, hard as he could. Just like Butch asked. There was a resounding _crack_ on impact; Butch was sent flying by the blow, straight into the cold, dirty water.

Oh.

At least a minute of apologies ensued as the synth had to fish Butch out of the water, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him up before he could sink. He was soaked, and dazed, and his jaw was already starting to swell; he blinked for a second when he was back on solid ground before spitting out a bit of blood and broken tooth, massaging his face and smirking more crookedly than ever as he leaned heavily on Mikhail.

He was laughing. "Damn," he slurred. "S'a mean right hook y'got."

"I'm so sorry, you said to hit you as hard as I could--"

"Yup."

"I could have concussed you."

"Think y'did, actually." And he seemed so nonchalant about it that Mikhail couldn't help disapproving.

"I'm taking you to Pinkerton. He must have something."

"Aww, so soon? Here I was hopin' you might do it again."

Things like this were probably why Harkness had told him not to listen to what humans told him to do, weren't they?

\---

Butch needing to have a couple of teeth capped and recover from a fracture in his jaw as well as the concussion put a week's worth of delay in the schedule. Mikhail insisted that Butch's health be put first. Butch insisted he was fine. And for once, a synth's opinion mattered a bit more than a human's did.

The next couple of days were spent watching Butch pout and try to tell everyone he was perfectly alright, while everyone else told him to shut up and let the stims do their job. All the painkillers he was on did not make Butch more cooperative. He kept trying to eat things he shouldn't; one could always tell when that happened, because he'd start whining, and the rickety old ship made for horrible soundproofing.

Mikhail stopped apologizing at around the point that Butch was on enough painkillers to say that what he'd done had been "hot as hell". Though he had very little idea what that might actually mean, it probably wasn't good, since Ted's response was to squawk Butch's name and smack him upside the head.

After four days, Harkness took the younger synth aside to have a very stern talk with him. It had something to do with power dynamics and inherent disparities between humans and synths, but it didn't make all that much sense. Several minutes of confusion later, the Courser gave up and just made Mikhail promise not to let Butch do anything without explaining what he was going to do first, which seemed like an easy enough thing to agree to.

Day six saw Butch stubbornly trying to chew his way through a box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes. Mikhail told himself that he was only helping Butch eat them out of pity, not because he liked them or anything. He ended up eating three quarters of the box himself.

On day seven, something in Butch's psyche finally snapped. Maybe it was boredom, maybe he was just bad at sitting still, maybe the stress and anticipation involving the young synth's upcoming operation was starting to get to him, or maybe he'd just run out of cigarettes and drawing paper. All Mikhail knew was that sometime around lunch, Butch decided to badger Ted and Harkness into helping him drag an old jukebox up from the lower decks and get it working.

And by the time dinner rolled around, it _did_ work. Butch and Ted were clever like that.

"Alright, now we're talkin'," Butch said once it was running, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. Music played from the machine, soft and melodious and slow. "Mickey, buddy. C'mere."

"Why?" Mikhail asked simply. He hadn't forgotten what Harkness had told him.

Butch held out a hand, smirking. Beckoning, just like he had when he'd asked the young synth to hit him. "Everybody's gotta know how to dance," he said. "It's a rule."

Ted snickered, watching from his perch on a creaky barstool. "Guess an exception like you proves the rule then, huh?"

"Eat a dick, marshmallow."

"Can, have, probably will again. It's actually not that bad." Next to him, Harkness choked midway through a sip of Nuka Cola, turning pink around the edges. "But by all means, go ahead. You two step all over each others' toes, I'm sure it'll be a real treat."

Mikhail felt heat rise to his cheeks. He'd never danced before, never tried, never had a reason to. But more and more he was learning there were a lot of things he'd _never_ done that he'd probably enjoy just fine if he had a chance. Sure, drinking hadn't been one of them, but dancing was a physical activity, and if anything he was well-suited to physical activities.

He took Butch's outstretched hand, letting the barber lead him out onto the cleared-off floor. Behind him, Ted let out a low whistle; he'd learned that such a sound meant the little human was impressed somehow. A good sign, maybe?

"A'ight, basics first," Butch said, taking both of the young synth's hands. "Put this one here," here, he directed one hand to his shoulder, "and this one here," while the other remained held in his, "and since I'm leadin', my hand goes here." His free hand settled at Mikhail's waist. "With me so far?"

Of course. It was hard not to be. Butch had a way of commanding the attention of whatever room he was in. "Yes."

"Good." Butch smirked, more crooked than usual from the lingering swelling at his jaw. "Now, the song's three-quarters. One-two-three, one-two-three. Music's all math, see, it's got like a... A programming language, I guess. Like binary or hex, except it's in fours or eights instead'a twos or sixteens."

"Right...?"

"Well, when you dance, you're followin' that language, right? Like, this song's in a four-language but it's got a three for a time signature, an' that's the rhythm you move to." Butch shifted his footing along to the timing of the song. "One-two-three. Like that, see? Now you try."

Mikhail nodded slowly, counting out the time in his head as he moved his feet to mimic how Butch had done it. It wasn't as graceful, more halting and unsure. One, two, three. "Like this?"

"Yeah, just like that." Butch seemed pleased by the progress. "Now all you gotta do is follow along, like this..."

And just like that, they were dancing. Butch leading, and the synth following. Moving in slow, lazy circles that involved a lot of Mikhail looking down to make sure his feet were going where he wanted them to, not where the human's own feet were.

"Doin' good," Butch said. His voice had a peculiar quality to it, sounding huskier. "Try doin' it without lookin', y'know?"

That was harder. Took some doing. Mikhail gasped when he accidentally stepped on Butch's feet, and Butch chuckled like it wasn't a big deal at all. But it got easier when he realized that every move Butch made was telegraphed, written in the shift of his muscles, in tiny changes in his stance and posture, in how he moved his hands to subtly guide things along. If Butch hadn't been moving slowly on purpose, then the synth might not have caught it at all.

"That's it, baby, doin' real good," Butch murmured. He was close enough that the synth could see the shadows cast on his face by his eyelashes.

A throat-clearing sound from off to the side brought Mikhail out of his thoughts, causing him to look up. Harkness was giving the pair of them a stern look, arms folded; Ted's brows were threatening to disengage from his face entirely in their journey skyward.

The music was over; it had been for a while. Butch seemed to realize this and stepped back quickly, jamming his hands into his pockets as he stared pointedly at the floor.

"Anyway," he said. "That's... That's how you do that."

"I see." Why did it feel like they'd been caught somehow? Like something about the dancing had been illicit? Ted was looking at the two of them like he knew something they didn't, and Harkness seemed to think that he could glare a hole in Butch's skull if he tried hard enough. Had they done something wrong?

Butch certainly looked like he agreed with that assessment, scuffing one foot against the floor. "Right, so..." He ran a hand through his hair idly. "I'm gonna go get a drink."

"Make sure it's non-alcoholic," Ted reminded him.

The barber snorted, waving dismissively. "Sure thing, _mom_."

He left after that, and all the young synth could do was frown at the place where he'd been after he was gone.

\---

The day of the operation came and went. Butch didn't return until a day or so afterward, and he turned a dark shade of red upon seeing Mikhail going about his business in the bow of the ship with no binder, no shirt, and new scars. But once he'd gotten over being flustered, the barber's first suggestion was that they should burn the old binder.

Literally.

"It's symbolic, y'know?" Butch tried to say.

Mikhail frowned at him. "Someone else might need it," he replied. "I thought I might leave it with one of the doctors. Pinkerton, or perhaps Preston. So that anyone who might need it can make use of it without charge."

Butch didn't like that so much; his response was a huff. "Why you always gotta be so practical, man?" Then he was off again, probably to find somewhere to pout. But he didn't leave the ship - the synth would've heard it if he had, since the door to the outside was quite loud - so that was something.

After a moment of confused blinking, the synth shrugged it off. Not important. At least Butch was back, even if he was being pouty. Him being gone for even just a few days felt wrong, somehow. No one else was quite as good at cooking, for one thing, and for another it was just so quiet without the barber's limitless energy filling up the ship's quiet spaces. No foot-tapping, no idle humming, no muted scratch of a pencil on paper, no clanging noises from the kitchen at three in the morning.

Not even a minute later, Butch popped his head back in. "And why ain't you wearin' a shirt, anyways? Gonna poke somebody's eye out."

"It irritates the stitches."

"Right, right." A pause. "Wanna borrow my jacket?"

Mikhail thought about it for a few seconds. "No, I don't think that will be necessary. But thank you."

In conclusion, Butch was acting weird. Very weird. Moreso than usual.

But there was little time to think about why, with the memory wipe being just a few days away. In a way, it likely didn't matter, or at least it wouldn't after the wipe; the synth would be living as a human soon, having fully shed the last parts of himself that belonged to the Institute. The last traces of M7-97 would be gone, and Mikhail Danse would finally take his place. It would be tough at first, but he was certain he would be able to handle it. The new persona he'd crafted for himself was better, stronger, tougher. Better able to handle anything the world could throw at him, able to still make a positive impact rather than a destructive one when he came out the other side.

It wouldn't be death, he told himself. It wasn't death. He would still be himself. Just a more condensed and purer form, without the emotional baggage that came with being involved with the Institute.

He was certain it was the right thing to do. The last phase of finally feeling like himself.

So why-- why was he so nervous?

Maybe it was anticipation, he thought. Giddiness and pent-up energy doing somersaults in his gut, leaving him staring out into space for long periods of time. Thinking about all the people like him out there that he could meet if he just had a little more confidence. Or maybe it was the effects of being in the same place for a month, effectively twiddling his thumbs with little to do beyond sitting and waiting for his new life to take shape so he could slip that new life on like a comfortable suit once it had been tailored to fit him right.

Or maybe, maybe it was something else. Maybe it was doubt. Maybe he'd gotten too happy, too invested in this in-between life. Maybe he was starting to think that there were things he could end up losing after all, without even remembering the loss enough to mourn it.

Maybe he was scared that Butch wouldn't keep his promise.

After fidgeting for a while, Mikhail got up out of the chair he'd been sitting in on the upper deck, and headed downstairs to find Butch. It was silly - the promise had already been made - but he had to be sure, because humans lied, and there would be no way of knowing whether it was a lie or not after the fact. For all he knew, Butch had just said it to be kind, to soothe. There was cruelty in that kindness, but it wasn't something that anyone would be able to prove if Mikhail had no memory of it.

He found Butch in the kitchen, jacket draped over a metal folding chair not too far off. His fingers were dusted white with flour as he molded a bit of dough around some sliced mutfruit. Blue stains on his lips implied that he had been sampling the mutfruit as he'd been slicing it; he was humming to himself, some tune that Mikhail didn't recognize.

Butch looked up and smiled, and something in the synth's chest fluttered. "Hey," he said. "'Sup? The whole jacket deal's still on offer."

"It isn't a deal if you get nothing out of it," Mikhail said.

"Who says I don't get nothin' out of it?" That wasn't even something that the synth could form a response to. "Anyways, if you ain't here for the jacket, then what'd you even come out here for?"

"I wanted to ask you something."

"Then ask me, man. C'mon, don't keep me in suspense here."

Suspense indeed. Mikhail could feel that there was a sort of tension between them, pulling ever so much tighter as time went on. He was certain Butch knew about it too, even if the barber acted like it wasn't there. "I... I would like to know," he began haltingly, "or rather, I have to confess to a certain... Doubt. About a promise you made."

Butch straightened, his smile disappearing as he tipped his head up and leaned his palms against the counter's edge. "You think I'll just fuck right off after you do the, the wipe-thing."

"I know how it sounds," the synth went on to say. "This isn't meant to reflect poorly on you. I don't think you incapable of keeping your word, Butch, I just..."

"No, I get it." Butch made a futile attempt to dust his hands off on his pants. "I get how that kinda shit works, believe me. An' I'd be the last person to say that I'm a reliable kinda guy to begin with."

"I wasn't saying that you aren't reliable," Mikhail tried to say, but the barber shook his head.

"Nah man, it's just facts at this point. Like, I won't even mean to fuck up, but I will. An' then I'll remember, and after that I'll do somethin' stupid 'cause I feel like shit, an' after _that_ I'll come back, but nothin's the same 'cause I already fucked up. So, you're not wrong."

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Butch was supposed to reassure, understand, console. Mikhail didn't want his concerns validated, he wanted them gone. So he could be certain again. "Then, you did lie to me," he said.

Within seconds Butch had made his way around to where the synth stood. "Hey, it wasn't gonna be a lie, alright? I was gonna make it not be a lie. I still can, too, an' I don't give a fuck what anybody thinks, whether it's impulsive or whatever the fuck." Mikhail could feel the fine grit of the flour still on those hands when one of them came up to touch his cheek. He leaned into the touch, closing his eyes.

"I'm scared," he admitted.

"That's okay. You got every right to be." Butch's hand shifted, taking hold of his chin. "But y'know what else you got? Me. Right here. I ain't goin' nowhere, baby, I promise. Even-- even if you don't know who I am, alright? I'll stay close, and I'll keep you safe."

"Even if it hurts you?"

"C'mon, what'd I say? I'm tough, I can take a little hurt." The hurt was already there, written in Butch's voice, in the faint tremor in his hand. But he was smiling when the synth's eyes opened again, smiling big and bright. "Jeez. You're so soft, man. What a pansy."

Mikhail blinked at him. "What's a pansy?"

The barber bubbled up with a laugh. And then he came up onto the tips of his toes, and without any warning, he pressed his lips to the synth's own.

A kiss, Mikhail realized. Soft and warm and wet, an utterly foreign and novel thing to a synth with so little experience in social matters. His lips parted and Butch surged forward to take advantage, tangling a flour-covered hand in his hair. It tasted like mutfruit, and Nuka Cola, and-- and--

Butch ended it as quickly as he'd started it, taking a step back and leaning back heavily against the counter. There was an apologetic twist to his grin as his breathing settled into something more even. "Sorry," he said, wiping at his mouth. "I probably shoulda asked first, huh?"

It was hard for Mikhail to come up with something to say to that when he, too, was feeling rather flushed and winded by the whole thing. He had to look away to be able to form words again, just because Butch's mouth had suddenly become that much more of a distraction. "I don't mind," he managed to say eventually. "Just don't tell Harkness."

"Pfuh, think about who you're talkin' to here. I don't tell the chief jack shit." That sounded as much like agreement as anything. "Now go on, get outta here. I gotta finish this turnover thing."

"Right." The synth turned, intending to head back to his room.

But then he paused midstep, frowning. A thought had occurred to him. A final question that he had to ask, to give himself that last bit of certainty. He would understand if it was too much, but it would nag at him if he said nothing at all.

"Butch?" he said. "Will you stay for the procedure when I have the memory wipe done?"

The barber froze for a second. It took him a moment to be able to answer. "Heh. Sorry, but uh," he shook his head, "not sure I should be in the same room for that, y'know?"

"Oh." Well, it had been worth the attempt. "Then... Thank you. For everything."

Butch's smile then made it look like he was about to start crying. "Ain't nothin' you gotta thank me for, man."

He was wrong, but that was alright. Mikhail had said it, and meant it, and that was what mattered. After tomorrow, all of it would be gone. But Butch would stay, and he would never be anything but himself. So even if Mikhail didn't remember, he'd still find Butch again, and connect with him again, and maybe get to kiss him again.

The thought of losing his memories wasn't so bad after that.

\---

It was spring. Apparently. Inside the Rivet City market with the ship all around, it was impossible to tell.

Under a rickety canopy in a stall next to Seagrave Holmes' junk shop, there was a young man with dark hair, dark eyes, and a fine layer of coarse scruff on his face. He was tall, far taller than the wastelander average, and his ill-fitting clothes strained over his broad shoulders whenever he sat up straighter for a customer. Between customers he'd fidget, a subtle thing that was easily missed if one wasn't looking. He didn't talk all that much unless prompted, likely out of self-consciousness due to the frequency with which his voice cracked.

And there were times when the young man would stare into space and seem to think of nothing at all, until something or someone managed to catch his attention again.

Butch Deloria let out a tired sigh as he watched, exhaling a long stream of smoke. He flicked his cigarette butt onto the floor and stamped out the smouldering remains with his boot, then jammed his hands into his pockets and approached the young man's stall.

"Hey," he said.

The young man blinked, and looked up. "Yes?"

"Y'look like you could use a shave," Butch said.

The statement seemed to surprise the young man, who reached up to touch his own face, feeling it. After a thoughtful moment he smiled and shook his head. "I would rather not, if that's all right," he said.

"You sure? It's on the house."

"I'm sure," he replied. "I think I'll let it grow in a little more before I bother. But I appreciate the offer."

"Well, a'ight. Lemme know if you change your mind."

"I will, thank you."

The barber didn't reply. He simply walked off, back towards the stairwell that'd take him to the Muddy Rudder. If asked, he'd just say he didn't feel like hanging around with security breathing down his neck, and that his capacity for good deeds only went so far. But if he were to be honest, he'd say that he couldn't stand looking at that smile for too long anymore.

He shouldn't have made that promise.

 


End file.
